


To Love A Wild Thing

by festeringfae



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alcohol, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/festeringfae/pseuds/festeringfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camilla wonders why Francis didn't just ask her to marry him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love A Wild Thing

It felt more familiar than it should have, keeping things from Richard. They fell back into it almost instinctively; it hadn’t been planned on either of their parts. Richard hopped into a cab outside the bar, and Camilla told him she’d take another, since her stop was before his, and she knew if they rode together he’d insist on paying. Neither of them had felt particularly comfortable accepting rides from the Abernathys’ driver.

Camilla stood under the awning outside the bar with Francis, and watched through the falling sheets of rain as the yellow car turned the corner. The taillights glowed in the gray mist in a way that Camilla, intoxicated, thought was oddly beautiful, in a Gothic sort of way.

“Want to get another drink?” she said, still watching after the fading red lights.

If Francis was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Yes.”

Their places on the bar hadn’t been taken in their absence; neither of them spoke much for a while, save for ordering another round, but it was a companionable silence.

“So,” Francis said eventually, stirring his drink. “I know why I don’t want to go home. Care to share?”

Camilla smiled, but it was barely wry. “I don’t care much for hotels anymore.”

He nodded, not looking at her.

She took a deep breath. “I also,” she said, fiddling with her straw, “wanted to talk to you about something.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Camilla took a long sip off her drink, then turned to look at him. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

He didn’t blink. “Ask you what?”

She kept looking at him. “You know what.”

Francis ran a hand over his face. Then he did something she’d never seen him do in public before; he loosened his tie. “Camilla,” he said, eyes downcast. “Everything happened very quickly. It’s not as if I chose her. I wouldn’t choose  _her_.” He gave a little shudder.

Camilla licked her lips. “I believe that,” she said, gaze unwavering. “But I don’t believe that’s why.”

Francis looked up again, his nostrils flaring. “And what was I supposed to do?” he demanded. “Call you up after six months, ‘Hello dear, how’s your nana, Mother’s fine, will you marry me?’” He took the lemon perched on the side of his glass and tossed it to the ground.

She looked at him calmly. “I would have come.” She slid her arm across the bar counter towards him. “You know I would have come,” she said with a bit less certainty.

He raised his head again, but kept his eyes trained on his drink. “I know,” he said softly.

Urgency rising in her chest, Camilla said, “Then for God’s sake—“

Francis covered the hand she still had upon the table with his own. “Let me give you some money for your grandmother.”

Camilla blinked, then shook her head. “No.”

“Camilla.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not. I’ve got the money, Camilla, and I don't mind. Let me make sure one decent thing comes of all of this.  I can set you up somewhere comfortably. You needn’t marry me for that, I  _want_ to.”

Camilla’s eyes were like ice. “I won’t accept charity.” She clasped his hand. “But I will accept something for something. Marry me.”

Francis threw his head back and laughed. “Camilla,” he said tenderly. “I’m not so inverted that I’d allow the lady to propose.”

She gave a short laugh, eyes wide. “You, a traditionalist?”

“You’ve still got a bit of ash on your forehead,” he pointed out. “I suspect I do, as well.”

Camilla wished it wasn’t sacrilege to wipe it off. “Get on your knees, then.”

His eyes twinkled with innuendo for a moment, but then he shook his head and took a drink. “I’m not marrying you, Camilla.”

She pressed her lips together. “Give me one reason why.”

“Well, for one, I’m already engaged.”

“A  _good_ reason _.”_

Francis sighed deeply.

“There isn’t one,” Camilla said. She was drunk, but her voice was steady. “Let me marry you, Francis. I won’t pretend Nana’s got nothing to do with it. But it’s more than that. I care about you, and I’m in your debt—“

“You don’t owe me a thing,” Francis said.

Camilla took a deep breath. “My  _family_ owes you.”

Francis closed his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Don’t bring him into this. I never expected any of that money back. I don’t want it. It’s nothing to me.” He drained his glass. “It’s certainly nothing to walk down the aisle for.”

She opened her mouth to respond, closed it, and turned her face away. “Is it because I remind you of him?” she asked quietly.

“Look at me.” She felt Francis’ cold, damp fingertips against her cheek, as he gently steered her face towards his. “Listen. I’ve known you for ten years. When I look into your eyes, I promise you: I have never, ever seen him.”

He held her head in his hands, his gaze intent on every inch of her face, and he never once flinched, not for a moment. His palms were soft against her cheeks. Camilla realized suddenly that she recognized what he smelled like, what Francis always smelled like, that plain soap with the slightest hint of lavender. The scent was with her again, one she didn’t know she had missed, and Francis’ palms were soft against her cheeks. He didn’t let go until she nodded.

“Why then,” she whispered, and this time, he answered.

“My family lived on top of each other even before I got caught. Now…” he sighed. “It’s constant. Suffocating. Even if my reputation could weather the scandal of a broken engagement enough for my grandfather’s liking, even if you could bare to spend your days simpering at horrible old women at society functions, we’d never be _really_  alone. Anyone could drop in at a moment’s notice.  We could never _really_ be ourselves.”

“If it’s me you’re concerned about,” said Camilla, “I haven’t any interest in other men. And I could—find a red-haired stranger for the night, if that’s what it took. I wouldn’t mind, it wouldn’t be anything to me.” She smiled a little, as if remembering a private joke. “It wouldn’t be my first meaningless sex ritual.”

“God.” Francis, finished with his own drink, reached over and finished hers. “I don’t care about your love life. I’m not noble enough to make my own life considerably harder, just for your sake. I know it’s neither of us deserves a claustrophobic society life, or we both deserve far worse. But you’re not like me, Camilla. You know how to work, how to manage yourself, how to get things done. You’ve never wanted anyone telling you what to do.”

He set his glass down, hard. “That’s all my life is. People telling you what to do, when to do it, without any good reason. You’d be grateful for a month or two; after that, you’d suck it up for the good of your great aunts, and maybe for me-- maybe you’d pity me enough for that. But I couldn’t bare your pity, nor the resentment that, for all your best efforts, would eventually go with it. I won’t marry you because I am entirely too selfish. If I marry you, no matter what slack you give me, I’ll always be on your leash. I’ll know that, and sooner or later, I’ll hate you for it.”

Francis swallowed. “I can’t hate you, Camilla,” he said, as if confessing some tragic flaw. “You’re the only one left, who’s been through it all, who  _understands._ ” His breath grew quicker. “I’ll still give you the money for your Nana, I will, but if you can’t make yourself take it, if you hate me for taking away the way you wanted to have it, I-I understand. But you might have ended up hating me anyway, and I just—I can’t hate you back. I can’t let that happen. I’m sorry.”

Camilla watched as Francis closed his eyes and took two deep, ragged breaths. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders before he could open his eyes. “I can’t take the money,” she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek. “But I can’t hate you, either.”

Francis nodded against her.

She stroked his hair. “Consider my proposal withdrawn.” Knowing he must be quite drunk by now, Camilla helped him to his feet. “Come on. I’ll have your driver take us both home.”

Once inside the limousine, secure behind the partition wall, Francis did something he only ever allowed himself to do while alone with Camilla:

He wept.


End file.
